


He Who Once Had Balance

by Onyxim



Category: DCU (Animated), Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Character Deaths, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onyxim/pseuds/Onyxim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While hosting a party at the Manor, Bruce has a panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Once Had Balance

"Bruce," Clark whispered in his ear. "Bruce, calm down."

He couldn't. He couldn't calm down. His airways weren't working or something, because every breath he took was shallow and wheezed. He swallowed several times and gripped Clark's left arm.

Lucky for them, the party wasn't entirely centered on them anymore, Dick and Tim had somehow become the center of attention. Clark had directed Bruce over to a couch in a corner, sat then down and pulled Bruce close to him, whispering words of comfort against his ear.

It had come on suddenly. Everyone was trying to talk to him, different faces kept popping into view and invading his personal space. It was too much, he was suffocating, too much going on--

Halfway through a conversation with one of the managers of one of the branches of his company, more and more people crowded around him to ask him questions. Faces were blurry, his suit was too hot, his hands shook and he stumbled over his words. He knew his face was heating up and the sounds in the room were suddenly deafening and where was Clark? There were too many people. Too many.

"Breathe, Bruce," came Clark's voice. Strong hands holding his shoulders. Bruce buried his face into the suit he was leaning against and inhaled shakily. He couldn't breathe. He was drowning, drowning, struggling--

"You need to breathe." Soothing words like waves.

Bruce knew his eyes were open, but he wasn't seeing. He knew Dick and Tim were keeping an eye on him from across the room, but he didn't feel it. He knew Clark was there, whispering gentle nothings in his ear, but he didn't hear it. His chest burned.

"Shh, shh," Clark said, and Bruce knew he had started whimpering. He was probably crying, but he couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel the warm tears slipping down his face and falling onto Clark's new jacket and he knew he was ruining this night for him--

_The room was dim. Tall figures surrounded him, so many people, too many, faceless, and asking muffled questions as policemen chattered quietly in a corner, eyes flickering over to the little boy. The orphan. "Poor kid," he heard. Over and over again. "Poor kid."_

_His mother's pearls felt like weights in his hands, roundness feeling more like jagged, broken memories. He couldn't do much but stare at the grey floor with a deep hollowness in his chest._

_Then a red-haired man with glasses clomped over in heavy boots--the sound was the loudest of all the commotion--his face crinkling with regret with each deafening step. He kneeled down, placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. And he opened his mouth, words he can barely remember now tumbled out. The man's eyes were sincere, sad, as he told the boy._

_And somewhere in the distance, Bruce heard glass breaking as the tears finally flooded_.

Dick was there now, Clark had gone. Where had he gone? Where'd he go?

Dick was rubbing his back, but instead of "I love you's" and "Breathe's", there were words of encouragement, words that said, "You can get through this".

He wanted air. He wanted to leave. Wanted--no, needed--to get somewhere where there was enough grass to go on for miles. Nothing around him. Just him, alone, no one invading his personal space, asking, choking him with questions--

He leaned into Dick's shoulder, gasping, tears spilled from his eyes, but he was tired. Just so tired. There was a hand on his shoulder--not to offer bad news, he realized--and he looked up and met eyes with royal blue ones, eyes that didn't waver, eyes that knew exactly what to do.

Without and ounce of hesitation, Bruce took Clark's hand and followed him upstairs. Away from Dick, away from Tim, away from the water that was drowning him. The sounds of mingling and music soon died down the farther they walked away. Clark opened a door, and inside awaited their shared bed.

Clark gently undressed him, and suddenly he was in the bed, covers bunched up at his shoulders. Breathing evenly as Clark laid down beside him. Bruce still felt numb, like he had been plunged into a bucket of cold water and had stayed there thirty years too long.

Strong arms stretched around him, captured him in a hug. Bruce released a breath he didn't know he was holding. It was the greatest feeling he'd had all night. The only person he ever allowed to get this close to him, both physically and emotionally.

Clark stared into his eyes, wiped the tears off his cheeks. Leaned in close and brushed his lips against his forehead.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore, Bruce."

**Author's Note:**

> This is usually how my panic attacks happen. Whenever I'm crowded, people are in my personal space, I start to freak out. I decided to put Bruce in that situation. I think it turned out pretty well. :D


End file.
